Sometimes, I miss CDs and tapes

Sure, sure, sure, the iPod is life-changing and digital music is akin to the second coming. But I never used to have such issues with my analog media:

notmyIM: Did you download that T Bone Burnett album for me?

nothusband'sIM: YES. it's on the other computer. i"ll email those files tonight

nothusband'sIM: i promise

notmyIM: Thank you. Also, did you get the new Wilco?

nothusband'sIM: no. i'll look for that tonight

notmyIM: And what is this business about DRM-free mp3s on iTunes? Can you ask hipeditorofamusicblog'sIM?

notmyIM: What does that mean?

notmyIM: Apparently you can "re-buy" mp3s you bought on iTunes for $.30 in the DRM-free format.

notmyIM: Do I need to do that?

nothusband'sIM: no

nothusband'sIM: it doesn't have the restrictions of just 5 computers, etc. also, it's at a higher bitrate -- better sound quality.

nothusband'sIM: but i'm not sure any of us can tell the difference. i guess you could. but it's one of those things that you may not even care, you know?

nothusband'sIM: i could rip two songs for you -- same thing at the old rate and the new rate. then you can see if you'd want to re-buy

notmyIM: My "problem" (among many) is that, currently, my iTunes only lets me have the purchased songs on ONE computer -- let alone a computer and an iPod, let alone 5 computers. Each time I sync my iPod it tells me I can't put my purchased songs on it.

notmyIM: So I cannot listen to "WIND IT UP," by Gwen Stefani, and I get cranky.

nothusband'sIM: well, that in itself isn't supposed to be that way -- it should be multiple computers. doesn't work when you log in with your user/pass?

notmyIM: It doesn't make me log in to sync my iPod. The problem happens when I sync -- it gives me an error message at the end of it listing the songs it was unable to "export" to the iPod.

nothusband'sIM: hm. next time you try that, can you write down/type down exactly what the error is? i'll track down a solution

nothusband'sIM: e-solution

notmyIM: You are the eSolution to all my eBusiness eProblems

nothusband'sIM: YES

Asphalt workers ROCK!

My drive to work involves going into and out of a (large for Northeast Ohio) valley. This morning, as I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill where I turn left to start back up the other side, I saw large trucks and those big steamroll-y smoothing things. I saw a sweaty paving company employee who was preparing to direct me to stop, just as you would expect there would be someone to direct traffic around a work site.

But instead of holding his hand up, palm facing me, to communicate with me to stop my car, this dude -- who was renegade in that he was not wearing the standard-issue orange vest and didn't have one of those signs that says "STOP" on one side and "SLOW" on the other -- threw up metal. \m/

Yep. Two horns up = "ROCK ON, Ronnie James Dio; but also: please stop, vehicle, and make way for the pavers."

Partying like it's 1996

The CD changer in my car broke a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it can be repaired, but because my commute to work is so much shorter than it used to be it's not nearly as high a priority as it would have been at this time a year and a half ago.

My console holds a few mix-tape treasures from the mid- to late-1990s, that period of time spanning college and the immediate post-graduation years. As you might imagine, these mix tapes are bitchin'. Though they contain some songs that I can't stomach in 2007 ("Moondance," by Van Morrison and "Because the Night" [the 10,000 Maniacs MTV Unplugged version -- not the Boss/Patti Smith version]), most of what I hear when I get in the car are delightful little surprises, tunes I haven't heard in years for no particular reason.

Some of them are quality compositions: today I enjoyed Morphine's "All Wrong" and the Beastie Boys' "Shake Your Rump" (Paul's Boutique being one of the most brilliant and fabulous albums of all time). Also, "The Dreaming," by Kate Bush, which I admit maybe not everyone loves but I do because it is the sonic equivalent of Australia, an entire Southern continent condensed into song.

Some songs are guilty pleasures: "One Night in Bangkok," from the Chess soundtrack, is AWESOMELY cheesy; "Does Your Mother Know," by Abba, is the campiest song about statutory rape that I can name. But taking the cake this morning: "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morissette. I feel compelled to mention this song because when it came out, it was every woman my age's motivating fuck-you to those guys who had wronged us (as if life was so difficult). It perfectly captured the angst of rejection from the female perspective; its rage was significant, harsh, simultaneously profound and petty. Whoever she wrote that song about had to have been one bad-ass motherfucker.

But then I learned that the song is quite possibly about "Full House" "star" Dave Coulier. WTF?!? Every time she scratches her nails down someone else's back she hopes this guy feels it?!?


Knowing its potential subject removes a little of the song's credibility. I suppose it's possible that Dave is a raging beast of a lover; perhaps he is also an incredible actor whose "Full House" purity masks his white hot sexuality. But that doesn't really make sense and, as Judge Judy says, when something doesn't make sense, usually it isn't true. So thanks a lot, Alanis, for getting a generation of women all revved up about...Joey Gladstone.

Anyway, nothing I've written here is new or particularly relevatory. It's just what I was thinking about while I careened mindlessly to work this morning.

Deluge of "Sassy" nostalgia

While avoiding work yesterday, I came across a blog post about the new book about the beloved "Sassy" magazine. It is remarkable to consider how much that magazine shaped my life; without it, I am sure that I would not be the reader, writer or observer that I am. And it's not just me: to a woman, each of my close friends who is my age feels the same way about the magazine. These are women who grew up in different places, in different situations, all of whom felt that the revolutionary no-bullshit publication profoundly impacted their lives for the better. We're talking about some smart women here: wherever you find an articulate, funny, aware 30- to 35-year-old, you find a woman who read "Sassy" in the late '80s and early '90s (before it was taken over from Jane Pratt in 1995 and had the life systematically extinguished from it).

While participating in a little more work-avoidance today, I decided to search eBay for back issues of "Sassy." (It is a well-established fact that I am still furious with my mother for throwing away all my back issues when I went to college. I have a friend who has this same long-standing anger with her mother for the exact same reason.) Issue #1 has a "Buy It Now" price of $400. You can pick up July 1989 for a mere $200. More interesting than the issues' value, however, is the fact that I remember each and every one of the covers. Obviously this one:

But also this one (I loved that "beauty tips for procrastinators" font):

And (for some reason) this 1990 cover:


(I remember being completely fascinated by this sparse cover. So unlike the screaming, chaotic, marginless, over-punctuated covers of some other teen magazines.)

Anyway: my point. Sometimes, back then, I read "YM." Can't remember a single article or cover image. "Sassy" was so powerful in its conception and execution that, 17 years later, the magazine's covers -- let alone the intelligent and unique content -- still bring back a rush of youthful memories and optimism.

Some obligatory Star Wars content

Many thanks to Husband for drawing my attention to this brilliant piece of work.

Which reminds me, set your TiVos, folks!

The story of Anakin Skywalker's descent into darkness and his son Luke's quest to conquer evil has spellbound audiences for 30 years. The reason for this is simple: the saga of Star Wars is universal and firmly rooted in the mythology and the political history of the entire planet. May 2007 will mark the 30th anniversary of George Lucas' space fantasy that grossed billions worldwide. For the first time take a profound look at the serious subtext behind Lucas' six film milestone. The influence of ancient mythology from Greek legends to King Arthur is visible; but also more recent historical influences, from the political rise of Napoleon to the machinations of Adolf Hitler can be seen.

And while I'm posting Star Wars-related links, may I kindly draw your attention to this book. It is endlessly entertaining and will provide you with all sorts of ammunition to argue with the Star Wars haters in your life (or even those, like my husband, who like Star Wars but just want to be difficult and argumentative).

I have some very personal Doors-related issues

From The Plain Dealer's Web site:

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Doors' Krieger and Manzarek set Rock Hall, HOB gigs
Posted by John Soeder
May 01, 2007 10:57AM

Doors members Robby Krieger and Ray Manzarek are set to drop by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for a reception at 7 p.m. Thursday, May 24, to mark the opening of "Break on Through: The Lasting Legacy of the Doors," a new exhibit devoted to the classic-rock band. The event is open to museum members, who can make a reservation by calling XXX-XXX-XXXX. [Number omitted because I am not willing to give the Rock Hall more "free publicity" than I alredy am with this post -- even if this is just a blog that nobody reads.]

From there, guitarist Krieger and keyboardist Manzarek zip over to House of Blues for an 8 p.m. concert of Doors music by their new band, Riders on the Storm, featuring ex-Fuel vocalist Brett Scallions. Tickets are $28-$200 at the HOB box office, or charge by phone.
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Problems that I have with this:

(1) The Rock Hall now has a "special" Doors exhibit, after it's had a permanent Jim Morrison exhibit for 12 years. (I know that Cub Scout uniform has been hanging there for as long as I can remember.) The history and ongoing evolution of rock and roll is rich territory to mine; surely they can present something totally new?

(2) The Rock Hall's "special" Doors exhibit is titled, "Break on Through: The Lasting Legacy of the Doors." Love the curators though I do, the Rock Hall has such a lame template for exhibit/program naming:

"Popular Song Title Here: The Life and Legacy of Band or Musician Who Wrote Aforementioned Popular Song"

Other examples of this issue: "Revolution Rock: The Story of the Clash." "Hard Travelin': The Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie." "In the Name of Love: Two Decades of U2." "Catch A Wave: The Beach Boys, the Early Years." I think you get my point.

(3) Robby Krieger and Ray Manzarek have sunk so low that they have named their new band "Riders on the Storm," which is a worse name than that of probably 95% of the Doors tribute bands out there.

(4) The most expensive ticket for the House of Blues show is $200! $200!! Because I measure prices in number of drinks at the bar (for less expensive items) or cost of an airline ticket to Australia (for more expensive items), let me just say that you could get from Cleveland to Sydney for less than it would take to get you and three "Touch Me" fans through the House of Blues door that night.

I'm just saying.

Shadiest crap ever

So the Saturday before Mother's Day my mom busts into my bedroom at 8:30 a.m. with a piece of paper in her hand. (One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was giving Mom a key to my house, which she never uses when my husband is in town but which she will often use when he is gone, to let the dog out or otherwise assist me while I am at work, etc. [Having just written and re-read that, I guess giving her a key is not such a mistake after all, but anyway.])

She puts the paper in my groggy little hand; it is an advertisement for a Mother's Day essay contest being held by a local beauty salon. Write an essay about how great your mother is, win lots of nice prizes including a spa day, lunch for two, gift certificate to a jewelry store, what have you. The bottom of the ad reads, "Must be 21 and older."

I am a fairly decent writer (I do so for a living), and I do enjoy my mother, and since I am confident that I will not be competing with some crayon-scrawled missive written by a cute kid, I decide to enter the contest.

Mom finds out yesterday that a 14-year-old won the contest; Mom asks the beauty shop owner how this is possible if the contest was only open to entrants over 21 years of age. Response: "The mother is the one who has to be 21." I take significant issue with this "clarification":

(1) Is it really necessary to codify such a rule? If you are a 21-year-old mother, your kid might be -- at most -- five or six. If a five- or six-year old can write a persuasive essay on his mother, just give the prizes to him. Because that's remarkable, and that five-year-old deserves a spa day. However, chances are, the child of a 21-year-old mother is no older than an infant or toddler. In which case a strong grasp of the English language and the motor skills necessary to write with a crayon are most likely still lacking.

(2) Are there really so many young mothers in our small town who have substantially-advanced and articulate infants that would participate in a relatively unpublicized contest at a small beauty salon so as to make such a rule necessary?

(3) I never would have entered a contest where I had to compete with teenagers. It's like that episode of "Seinfeld" where Kramer bests children at karate. I feel quite sheepish about the whole thing.

All of which leads to the obvious: the rule was originally created to level the playing field, but the beauty shop owner had a winner in mind and was forced to "clarify" her rule at the last minute. Thinking that nobody would figure it out. But, as Judge Judy says, don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining. It's not that I need the prizes or the "glory." I just hate being lied to, and I hate when people assume that I won't figure out their idiocy.

The fix is in.

So, anyway, I hereby "publish" my essay on Mom. Because being blogged about is even better than winning a spa package.

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Mother’s Day Essay Contest
Written for Mom, by Me

It is commonly thought of as a horrifying fact of life that, eventually, we all turn into our mothers. A corollary to this horrifying fact is the exceedingly horrifying fact that, indeed, our mothers are always right. Nobody ever wants to admit these truths, but, alas, they are as certain as death and taxes. If you’re lucky, you can suffer these realities with a smile of respect and admiration for the woman who gave birth to you – with no small measure of love, reserved for the times when she isn’t criticizing or telling you what to do. If you’re really lucky, however, you can embrace these realities and be grateful that you’re turning into your mother who is, by the way, always right. I am lucky enough to fall into that latter category; I have hit, so to speak, the mother lode: I get to be as cool as Carol and I am right all the time!

Wicked.

I fought it long and I fought it hard – no way are you right on this one, Mom, you’re crazy! – but with each passing year it becomes a little clearer that whatever advice she gives, whatever assessment of a life trauma she offers, whatever criticism she levels at my inane behavior…correct, all of it. Correct, correct, correct. The truth of the matter is, accepting her Supreme Knowledge of All Things has set me free. It’s hard to worry about things, because she tells me everything is going to be OK. And since she’s always right, everything will be OK. From the mundane to the extraordinary, she has yet to prove me otherwise.

Like the time not too long ago that, against my lazy and pathetic protestations that I didn’t want to put in a garden this summer, she forced me to come to her house, divide her hostas and transplant them to my own perennial-bed-in-the-making. I whined and complained the whole time. I even injured my foot on the shovel because in my stubbornness I chose not to wear my gardening shoes. (She brought me the peroxide as I sat on the front lawn. Another sign of a quality mother: no matter her age and the condition of her arthritis, she is the one who runs to the medicine cabinet while you sit in the grass with a teeny tiny cut.) And you know what? The following day, as I considered the beautiful hosta garden taking shape in my own backyard, I had to admit that she was right. Once again. I did want to garden this summer. Mom, let’s go to Petitti’s!

Or the time I woke up to my beloved puppy, Jet, having a seizure on the floor next to my bed. Kicking wildly, foaming at the mouth, staring at me with a blank, expressionless eye that I was certain indicated her imminent passing. I did not then understand that it was a seizure; I truly did think she was dying. (To fully appreciate Jet’s importance, one must realize that when she was six months old my husband and I commissioned a portrait of her that hangs in our living room. Jet is, therefore, exempt from the sort of ugliness that dooms the rest of us mortals: she will not, cannot, ever get sick or, heaven forbid, pass away. She exists on some alternate plane of eternal dogs.)

Jet came of out the seizure just fine, and resumed her morning canine activities such as crying for her breakfast. I called Mom in a raving, sobbing, weeping mess. What she told me is the sort of advice that really only comes with age, the kind of wisdom that mothers dispense but that 32-year-olds ignore until they live for a few more decades and figure it out for themselves, only to slap themselves on the forehead and exclaim, my mother used to tell me this all the time!: life is not perfect. People are not perfect. Dogs are not perfect. You do not know what is going to happen next. It could be joyous, it could be heartbreaking. Whatever it is, it is going to happen, and it will all be OK. In the meantime, just love. Love Jet. Appreciate her. Appreciate those around you. Never leave angry. Never take anything for granted. Keep it in perspective. Take it with grace and everyone will be just fine.

I try each day to live her advice. Sometimes it’s hard because I am still mostly a young uptight thing who has more bratty days than I’d like. But each day that I wake up and Jet is a happy, non-seizuring girl, I am grateful. Each day that I have a loving family around me is another day when I count my blessings. I strive to acquire prematurely Mom’s wisdom of age. As they say, youth is wasted on the young. Mom inspires me to belie that aphorism.

She also inspires me to drink vodka and smoke the odd cigar, but that is another story entirely.